


The House Carpenter

by T J Feardorcha (MonsterTesk)



Series: Flurries [1]
Category: Justified
Genre: Existential Angst, Existentialism, In Medias Res, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post Apocalyptic World, Recreational Drug Use, past Raylan Givens/Winona Hawkins, past ava crowder/boyd crowder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterTesk/pseuds/T%20J%20Feardorcha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a world of cold and cruelty now. This is a world where children die if they play outside and people come home with their gloves frozen to sensitive skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Too Cold To Be Enemies

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, the premise is that the world doesn't get warm anymore. A hot day is anything out of the negatives and everything fell to shit when people realized it wasn't going to get better.  
> I've kind of made the canon time-line a little... wobbly. Hope you don't mind.
> 
> Oh and I just gave Winona's baby a random name that came to mind.

 

People liked to think that it was Daddy the Crowder kin were most afraid of, possibly because that's who they were most scared of, but it wasn't. No, that’s not quite true but it’s hard to look back at memories covered in ice and decide.

Momma was a quiet and merciless force that ruled their house and everything involving her children. Not even Daddy would argue with her when it came to them. To Boyd and to Bowman, she was the ever-caring law of the land.

That's what made her so terrifying; she loved them and only wanted what was best. Boyd knew that Bowman took it like a grudge, hated women and Momma and anything else with breasts or caring eyes. Maybe Boyd would have turned the same. Maybe he should have. But he didn't.

Momma used to make them take baths. From that sentence alone it doesn't sound like much. No punishment, no fear, no raised voices or accusations. She hadn't needed that. Every Saturday night she'd sit Boyd in the empty tub, frowning at the mud on his skin and the dirt under his nails, put the stopper over the drain, and turn on the hot water. She wouldn't turn on the cold at all, just the heat, then sit down on the toilet and light her cigarette.

Maybe that made it worse; to have to sit there and let the near-boiling water slowly crawl over the bottom of the tub around the heals of his feet until it touched his calves. It never heated up right quick, always sort of tepid until it reached his bottom. That's when it would start to warm. Going from comfortable to burning by the time it got high enough to touch his tailbone.

Boyd would sit there and watch the near-boiling water rise up to cover his knees while Momma watched him and smoked. Boyd remembers she would talk to him like that; sometimes sing if the mood hit her or murmur quietly. He never remembers what she said or even what her voice sounded like even though he was old enough when she died to have her solid in his heart. All he ever remembers is the rising boil of the tub, the purl of cigarette smog lighter than the vapors off the water, and her tired, thin mouth as it moved.

He’d hated those baths; hated the liquid that turned his skin pink, itchy, and the sensation of only half floating without enough substance below him to swim away. If the water had been deeper, as deep as the ocean, it would have been as cold and unforgiving. He could have lived a drowned out life with hues of blue and nothing but ice for company. Instead the energy in the water rose up over his legs, turned dry mud into indistinct brown shapes, took the dirt from his skin and the soil from the souls of his feet and left him clean.

It was not quite baptism by not quite fire.

Boyd doesn’t miss those baths anymore than he misses his Momma not even while sitting in water so cool that ice branches out and floats against his skin like tiny slivers of broken glass in a world made out of a glass house where no one actually had to throw a stone to make it shatter.

The parallels between his bath now and the ones he took with Momma, now so far removed they’ve run into one single memory, one instance of cleansing in a lifetime of sin, are ones he draws for himself and not some cosmic joke about getting the dirt from behind his ear so he can be clean enough.

Quieter than the lap of grey water around Boyd’s legs, the door to the washroom opens. Boyd should look but he don’t see much point. There are few people up in The Place this late at night that would be awake; most of them huddled together in the Big Room for warmth.

Raylan doesn’t say anything at first, just gets out the long lighter and tilts his hat back as he kneels next to the tub.

For one heart-raising moment, Boyd imagines he’s going to light up a cigarette and sit on the toilet, maybe sing a song that, years later, Boyd won’t remember how it sounded coming from his mouth but know the words to anyway. Instead he pulls the guard off of the tub’s burners and lights them. Boyd doesn’t move in the water. He’s not sure he can. He feels as frozen as the land. As hard and solid as the permafrosted hollers.

Raylan sits back when he’s through, fixes his hat, and stares straight ahead. He doesn’t look at Boyd and Boyd aint expecting him to either. The only sound is the soft whoosh of fire under the porcelain and steal used to create the bathtub. It sounds soft and lovely. Boyd can’t stand it.

This is a world of cold and cruelty now. This is a world where children die if they play outside and people come home with their gloves frozen to sensitive skin. Boyd starts to hum a song. He doesn’t remember what it’s called or the words but it feels appropriate all the same.

“’Member that summer after we graduated high school?” Raylan inquires, cutting through the height of the song, before a decision has been made. Water splashes at Boyd’s knees. The tub isn’t filled all the way and never is by the time he makes it in here, after most everyone else has finished with it and the water starts to freeze. Boyd feels breathless for a moment, as if so startled by Raylan’s voice that he can’t breath. Ever since he came back it hasn’t sounded right, hasn’t been natural. It doesn’t fit anymore, doesn’t sound all the way like home; accent worn away by the press of other peoples and places. Boyd doesn’t respond. Out of exhaustion or insult, he doesn’t know.

“Hot as Satan’s testicles, even at night,” Raylan says, taking Boyd’s lack of answer as a no. Or maybe a yes, Boyd’s not sure. “After work one night we snuck onto Foster’s property.”

Boyd nods, gathering his feet under him. The water is much too warm now; it feels comfortable when nothing should.

“Went skinny dipping in his swimmin’ hole,” Boyd says in agreement, finally admitting out loud he remembers. He does, too. He remembers the humid oppression of the sky, the claustrophobia of the mines, and then the sweet relief of stagnant pond water. He remembers grinning at Raylan from the land while he treaded farther out into the water and watched Boyd trip over his pants, struggling on land to join him in the water.

“Almost got shot,” Raylan says, one of his chronic ironic smiles on his face. “Cause of you.”

Boyd shakes his head.

“I do not recall that—” Boyd cuts himself off before he can say ‘my friend.’ Raylan frowns like he heard it anyway. He could always do that with Boyd. It’s like he has a line into Boyd’s mind that not even Boyd has.

“You were playing dead in the water. ‘Cept I didn’t know you was playing. Shouted your name, turned you over, but you didn’t move.”

Boyd wriggles his toes on an impulse. The water twitches around his hips. He distinctly decides he doesn’t feel guilty.

“Old Foster came out with his rifle ‘n’ started shooting,” Raylan says, chin tucked in against his chest, eyes still forward, hat almost covering half his face. Boyd wonders if he practices that in the mirror. Knowing him, he does. There is nothing natural about Raylan Givens, not even his accent anymore.

“As I recall, you were the one who said we should head out there, Raylan,” Boyd says, voice rough like pick axes, his throat as dry and sharp as the mines Raylan escaped so long ago.

“I don’t remem—” Raylan cuts himself off as Boyd stands, the water stabbing precise little reminders into Boyd’s skin, not letting him forget that the cold could never be escaped for long. Raylan’s eyes cut to him, linger, and then return to their original position. It’s the first time that Raylan has looked at him since coming in. Maybe since this whole thing started. Boyd shivers and steps out of the water.

He doesn’t get dressed and he has no designs to until he’s all the way dry. He – and everyone else – has learned by now that one must get completely dry before departing from the relative warmth of the washroom. Boyd leans over Raylan, dripping a little on him, and grabs the towel hung above his head. Raylan shivers like he’s the one who’s wet. Boyd sees his shoulders stiffen before he puts the towel over his head and begins to dry off, roughly rubbing himself from the head down with the towel.

Raylan doesn’t move when Boyd steps out of the water even though there’s not enough room for Raylan’s long legs and Boyd to walk without Boyd having to carefully navigate around him. Boyd kicks Raylan’s booted foot. Raylan starts and begins to move slowly. It irritates Boyd. As does most things that Raylan does. He stands, shuffles over to the small table meant for clothes to be kept on while one bathes and begins to pull off his boots. Boyd sits down in the spot Raylan vacated, legs crossed in a loose pretzel, and wraps the over-sized towel around his shoulders like a blanket. The carpet under his ass is warm from Raylan.

Boyd, unlike Raylan, doesn’t stop staring at the other occupant of the room, not even for decency’s sake, while he undresses. First are the boots, then the button up shirt, after that Raylan peels a T-shirt off, followed by a long sleeve shirt, then, finally, a tank top. Boyd says nothing, not even when Raylan pauses, hands on his belt. He just hums a little which seems to pull Raylan back into movement because Boyd hears the click of his belt and the slide of his zipper. The jeans come down slowly to reveal the thermal Raylan is wearing under them and the first layer of socks that the thermals have been tucked into. That pair of socks, thick and woolen and tall, comes off, hurriedly followed by the thermal. What’s left now is underwear, a pair of panty hose, and, under them, another pair of socks.

Raylan leans against the table to shimmy out of the hose. Boyd’s eyes follow his hands progress as they reveal skin. At one point in time, Boyd probably would have had something to say about those but now he recognizes the necessity of as many layers as possible and hose, much to his surprise, can keep a person warmer without adding to the bulk like other materials do. Boyd wears some, too. The girls in The Place find it a source of amusement whenever they catch sight of a man’s panty hose. Raylan shucks his underwear quickly, eyes fixed on where his hands go as if it requires all of his concentration to get undressed.

When he finally pulls off the socks and sets them on the table, Raylan stands there and stares at the pile of clothes with that ironic smile, as if there’s something amusing about his clothes sitting on top of Boyd’s. It’s not the first time they have and it probably won’t be the last as he and Boyd are one of the few people who make it a habit to stay out as long as possible and to take the last baths of the day. That never seems to matter to Raylan. He always stares at the pile as if it’s the first time he’s seeing it. Boyd would wonder about that but he already has too much to think on when it comes to one Raylan Givens.

Boyd keeps his eyes on Raylan’s chest when he walks the short distance to the tub. Raylan always gets in slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t want to rush this even though the water is murky and discolored from the people who came before him, from Boyd’s own body. He sits down slow and careful, hands gripping the edge of the tub so tight his skin turns white and mottled.

Boyd looks away when he sighs, leaning back against the edge of the tub. It is now and not before that Boyd always feels indecent for looking at Raylan. He hums to himself and wishes for a cigarette while Raylan rinses off the toil from the day. Raylan is always out quicker than Boyd. Sometimes he thinks that Raylan does it on purpose just to be contrary. Boyd wouldn’t put it past the man. He also doesn’t dry off before stepping out of the tub so he drips water warm enough to feel hot against Boyd’s already cool skin as he walks past him.

He dries off and sits down on the edge of the tub. Boyd, just to make Raylan uncomfortable, leans over and pulls the guard off the burners for the tub. Raylan stands so quickly one would think he was readying for a fight. Boyd just smiles to himself and reaches in to turn off the gas. The burners shut off. Boyd replaces the guard, eyes on what he’s doing. When he’s done, Raylan settles back into his spot like a twitchy bird, perched on the edge, towel across his lap.

Boyd stands, towel still across his shoulders, and walks over to his clothes. He’s as dry as he’s gonna get so there aint a reason to stay naked any longer.

“I have a jar of green goblin in my room. Would you care to partake of it with me, Raylan?” he asks as he picks out his small socks from the pile. He doesn’t wait for a response, doesn’t even turn his head even though he can feel Raylan’s eyes on him set at some frosty temperature that’s still warmer than the air as he dresses.

“Are you asking a federal marshal if he would like to imbibe an illegal substance with you, Boyd Crowder?”

Boyd smiles to himself as he pulls up his underwear. He doesn’t respond until he’s pulled his hose on over his socks and started to pull the leg of his long johns right side out.

“Perhaps, Marshal, I’m simply inquiring as to whether or not you’d like a cocktail,” Boyd says, glancing over his shoulder. Raylan averts his eyes when he looks, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Raylan doesn’t nod or say a thing but he doesn’t have to. He always goes when Boyd invites him. Sometimes when he doesn’t. They had both decided tacitly a time that seems long ago now that it was too cold to be enemies. Boyd leaves the room when Raylan stands to get dressed.

He’s quick to close the door because the washroom is one of the few warm rooms in The Place and by now people treat that as if it’s sacred.

Boyd treads softly across the ground, careful where he steps in case there’s a person or persons sleeping on the floor. The Big Room is piled high with people from all over Harlan. They flocked here when the pipes froze or ended up here when their cars wouldn’t start back up from the cold. It seemed as if everyone came together when the cold decided to stay. It is a decision of practicality and emotion; a choice made out of the need for warmth and comfort. And people used to say that there was no community spirit anymore.

Boyd makes it to his private room without incident, feeling like a ghost walking among the still bodies of the living. They’d given him the room because they fear Crowders and Boyd is the last of them. What had once been his fellows, neighbors, and townfolk now treat him like concentrated evil; as if the death of a Crowder is accompanied by the passing of the malign spirits of the departed into whichever one remained.

Some of them look at him as if he is Daddy, some like he’s Bowman or Johnny. Boyd never held much stock in the preternatural but from the looks of the people here, it’s like they can’t decide which one he’s possessed by. The adults take his help grudgingly, wondering when or how he’s going to make them pay for it.  The children, few who are that remain, look at him as if he’s Momma and that burns worse than being Daddy. They take treats from him as if he were a goddess come down the mountain just to anoint them and punishment as if it is their due.

Boyd hates it. Hates the way they look at him as if he has a love for them that allows him the privilege of being the one who brings order to a misbegotten lamb. Boyd knows that the only place a Crowder can shepherd the innocent is into damnation and sin. Boyd doesn’t stop them, feeling that if they shall suffer a witch to live then they shall receive their due penance from this purgatory of ice and wind.

Boyd pulls the jar of green goblin out from behind the stack of clothes he keeps in the cupboard and sits down on the mattress. There is no box spring or frame, that having long since been burnt for warmth or turned into something necessary. He leans back against his stack of pillows and waits, eyes on the door.

It doesn’t take so long for Raylan to open the door and step in. Boyd knows it’s him because he’s the only one that doesn’t knock or who would dare come here so late at night. Raylan kicks his boots off by the space heater that Boyd salvaged from Ava’s home after she—after the cold came. He turns it on and Boyd doesn’t ask him not to even though he wants to. It runs on kerosene, which is hard enough to get now that the roads are mostly ice.

Boyd waits until Raylan sits down to unscrew the lid from the jar. He holds it out to Raylan with a quirked eyebrow. Raylan’s lips compress but he takes the jar from him anyway. He takes a swig and makes a face, thrusting the jar back at Boyd.

“Damn, that’s awful.”

Boyd smiles and sips at it. It really is.

“Maybe you would prefer it if I put strawberries in the next batch, m—Raylan.” Boyd isn’t stoned enough yet to brave calling Raylan his friend. He takes the jar back from Boyd and swallows a larger amount. Boyd follows suit when Raylan returns the jar to him before screwing the lid back on and setting it on the milk crate that passes as a side table for him.

There’s a few minutes or more of silence, filled only sporadically by Boyd attempting to get Raylan to talk before Raylan sighs and crawls up the bed to sit next to Boyd. He kicks the blankets down and shoves his feet under them before pulling them up and over his lap and, by side effect, Boyd’s lap as well. The space heater hums in the corner, filling the room with warmth.

Boyd’s eyes feel oversized and his stomach turns a little. He can tell he’s rocking a little from side to side because the world sways with the movement.

“Missus Donnelly from over in t’other place tried to git me to come stay there yest’day. Told her I had to keep an eye on you, Chowder,” Raylan says as he burrows under the blankets. Boyd smiles, both because Raylan has always been a talker when stoned and because of the appearance of his old nickname.

“A marshal can’ jus’ let crim’nals walk ‘round unsupervised. Wouldn’t be proper, I tol’ her. She looked at me funny-like.”

Boyd slides farther under the blankets, feeling more comfortable now that he could hear so strongly that Raylan was Harlan. He wonders briefly why it takes intoxication for Raylan to sound as he should. He wonders if Raylan purposely waters his accent down as if that would or could remove him from where he’s from. Boyd knows it doesn’t. He knows that Harlan is in his very genetics, knows that his blood is in the soil here.

“The Jenkins boy finally died. Don’t know what to do with his Daddy. He won’ leave his house. Can’ say I don’ blame him but it aint right. He’s goin’ ta freeze ou’ther’ on his own now his kin moved tuh Th’Place.”

Boyd reaches his arm out from under the warmth of the blankets and grabs the jar. He sits up enough to take another drink before passing it to Raylan. He finds it funny or perhaps ironic that Boyd is the quiet one and Raylan the talker when they’re inebriated. His stomach churns a little, mouth cotton ball dry and wishes he had a glass of water.

He hears Raylan swallow. It’s loud in the quiet of the room. Somewhere beyond his door, a baby starts to cry.

“Winona called me th’other day. Says Gail has pneumonia. Don’t know if she’s gonna make it through the week. They got them both up in the hospital in one of them heated rooms.” Raylan talks as he fusses with the lid of the jar. “First time I get to see my baby might be at her funeral…”

Boyd reaches out his hand and touches Raylan’s, stilling it on the top of the jar. Raylan stares at him with heat in his eyes. Whether that’s anger or anger of a different kind is lost on Boyd. He sits up enough to take the jar back. Boyd tightens the lid and sets it on the milk crate. When he turns back to Raylan, he finds the man leaning in, eyes fixed on something lower than Boyd’s eyes but higher than his chin.

Boyd stills, feels too hot for his skin. The space heater makes a small noise, a tink that’s louder and quieter all at once. Raylan looks away, jaw working and lips thin. The moment is broken. Boyd’s heart is inexplicably racing. He thinks about Ava.

He thinks about her blond hair and wide eyes. He thinks about the feel of her hip under his hand and her smile against his neck. He tries not to think about the cold that came to her eyes before the cold took over the land. He does not think of her body, curled unnaturally tight and bruised, forever frozen with her hands fisted over her ears. She had been outside when the cold hit, had been caught down by the slurry, disposing of a body. At least, he allows himself to think, she took those crooked lawmen with her into the cold. He never saw her body in person; just a cell phone photo a police officer had shown him. Boyd can’t shake the doubt that she’s gone but he puts that down to grief.

“I wanna ice cream,” Raylan says, the sudden burst of noise startling Boyd. He laughs. Boyd can’t help himself. Of course Raylan wants an ice cream when the world is literally frozen over. Probably can’t stop thinking about ice cream.

“Raylan, my friend,” Boyd says as he turns his head, still chuckling a little. “You are…” Boyd trails off. Raylan is looking at him again but it’s softer, still angry a little, but definitely gentle. He used to look at Boyd like that back when they mined together. Back when Boyd would do stupid things just to show off for him. Back when Boyd—

“What?” Boyd asks, can’t help himself in this anymore than he could with the laugh. Raylan shakes his head.

“Almost forgot we weren’ nineteen anymore.”

Boyd looks away.

“I don’t see how you can.”

He feels Raylan’s hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not so hard to anymore. We haven’t changed so much.”

Boyd pushes himself almost completely under the blankets, mind turned to anger.

“We’ve changed too much, Marshal.”

The hand disappears.

“Not nearly as much as we should have,” he hears Raylan say softly. Boyd closes his eyes and lets the rocking motion of the world and the quiet breathes behind him push him to sleep. 


	2. Your Cowboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He dreams of a hand resting on the pillows next to his head, lightly touching his hair, and a coal dusted face that smiles with blindingly white teeth and eyes that hold an eternally raging storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like in doing this all wrong.

Boyd stands in front of the display of laundry detergent and frowns. He’s pretending to make a decision between the bottle of tide and the other bottle of tide. Personally he prefers Arm and Hammer but they don’t get that no more. Little Steph from Crescent road (who isn't all that little at twenty with legs longer than Boyd) sidles up next to him.

“I can’t decide,” she says, half-frown half-smile on her face.

“The choices are many,” Boyd agrees. The lights flicker then go out. Must be ten. The lights always give out at the same time every morning. The regularity of it could be comforting if Boyd allowed it to.

“Do you think I should get the one on the left or the one on the right?” She says, bumping her elbow against his in a slow fashion.

“I don’t know that.”

She turns to him, one hip cocked a little higher than the other, a sly smile on her face. Boyd knows she’s pretty under the parka and layers of clothes, knows that when her lips aren’t chapped from cold and the lower half of her face covered by cloth, that she’s comely and sweet.

“What do you know?”

Boyd smiles at her.

“What I know, miss,” Boyd says and takes a step forward. “Is that one shouldn’t ask advise of strangers.” He grabs the one farthest from her off the shelf. “Never know if they make good decisions or not.”

He smiles at her, casually about-faces, and pushes his cart down the aisle.

 

He wakes up to a ceiling he’s never seen before. It’s mostly white and clean. In fact, the whole room seems to follow this rule of being white and clean. His head hurts. His ankle hurts. His ass, strangely enough, also hurts. Boyd groans and tries to sit up. Hands touch his chest, gently push until he complies.

“Hey now,” the voice says softly. “Don’t be doing that just yet.” Boyd recognizes that voice; he’d know it anywhere. He turns his head and tries to focus on the person whose hands are still on his chest but his eyes won’t cooperate.

“There you go,” the voice says gently. Boyd closes his eyes. He doesn’t think this person means him harm right now. He can rest for a little while. He just feels so tired…

 

When Boyd wakes up it’s dark in the room. He sits up slowly because several parts of him are sore and he doesn’t know why. Was he kidnapped? Who would rightly expend the effort to do that now? There is no criminal empire, no money, nothing about him that would inspire that from someone. Whatever the reason, he knows he has to leave. He looks around until he spots a window. Night. It’s night. No wonder he wasn’t bound up. It’s suicide to go outside at night on foot now. He could maybe steal their car. It would take a while to warm up and might not start. He could set the house on fire, let it burn down and use that for warmth. If there’s more than one person in the house odds are someone will die and he could even the fight. At the very least it’d keep him warm until morning. He pulls the blanket off and swings his legs to the side of the bed.

It’s not until his feet hit the ground that he realizes he should have been more careful. Pain shoots up his ankle and through his leg. He grunts. Sprained. It’s sprained, he thinks while everything gets woozy. Boyd places a hand on the bed to steady himself. His vision swims. Is he drugged?

Automatically he raises his free hand to his head. There’s a bandage there. Wrapped around his head. He follows it with his fingers until he feels a stabbing pain. Not drugged. Hit in the back of the head. He frowns. There’s a noise from the corner of the room and then—

“Boyd?”

Boyd sags but doesn’t sit back down even though his ankle is killing him.

“Raylan? You too?”

Who would kidnap both of them? Why would anyone want him and a marshal? Boyd tries not to answer that.

“You fell,” Raylan says, voice soft. Boyd can see the tall outline of him as he rises from what must have been a chair and walks over to Boyd. “Some ice out front of the general store.”

Boyd nods. He doesn’t remember this so it's not like he can disagree. Rayan puts his hands on Boyd, one on his arm and the other on his side. It somehow feels both too familiar and too impersonal all at once.

"The doctor said you shouldn't be on your feet too much right now."

Boyd nods then winces. It hurts to move his head. He tries to remember what happened but all he gets is waking up alone, picking up supplies, talking to little Steph and then nothing. He lets Raylan help him into bed, frown on his face.

Raylan smiles at him in the way he does when he knows something Boyd don't. Or when he's trying to convince him he does. It's always been hard to tell for Boyd.

"If you're tryn' to remember, don't bother. You won't."

Boyd decidedly doesn't sigh because he hates letting Raylan know he’s right. He's never liked the way Raylan can so easily read him. He'd hoped the first time he saw him after twenty years he wouldn't be able to do that anymore but Boyd was, and usually is about most things involving Raylan Givens, wrong.

He's got that smile still on though. Boyd wants to punch him or do something that would make that smile disappear.

"Why're you here, marshal?"

That does the trick. Raylan frowns a little and takes a step back.

"They didn't know who else to call and you kept trying to set the clinic on fire."

Boyd frowns at that. The room is warm enough that he can't think straight anymore.

"I'm afraid I don't remember doing that."

Raylan sits down on the foot of the bed, dim light turning him into a chimera of shade and soft colors.

"This ain't the first time you woke up. Second since I been here."

Boyd shifts how he's sitting. Concussion then. Must have bruised his brain. He's surprised by Raylan's restraint. Not a singe joke about damaged goods. There's silence after that with Raylan staring out the window and Boyd staring at him.

Maybe one day he'll ask why Raylan doesn't look at him, why he can't stand the sight of Boyd but that day is not today. Boyd is pretty sure he knows the answer anyway. Raylan hates what Boyd has become, hates the things he's done and the choices he's made. It used to make Boyd angry to think about and then amused. Now it just makes him tired. To be fair - not to Raylan but to himself - most things make him tired now. Sometimes getting up in the morning makes him tired and that has nothing to do with how the other side of the bed is always empty.

Boyd lies down and doesn't wonder if Raylan will be there when he wakes up because he never is.

The last thing he hears is Raylan saying he'll let Boyd get to sleep. There may be something else but Boyd doesn't hear it.

He dreams that Raylan talks softly to him through the night, voice gentle, and that if he stirs there's a hand touching his shin and Raylan's voice telling him it's all alright.

 

He wakes up to an empty room and isn't disappointed. Outside the window it's blindingly white. It must have snowed while he was asleep. Boyd sits up and allows the fog of sleep to stay over him. It's like the world is rocking, gently rocking, while everything and nothing can touch him. There's pain prickling at the edge of his senses that he's sure will bloom into hurt.

He sits there for a little while and tries not to think. He must be on some medication because it's very easy to achieve this goal, far easier than it's been in a long time.

The door opens. Boyd tenses. It's a woman in a yellow dress. She smiles at Boyd, surprise and exhaustion in her eyes. He doesn't recognize her so she must be one of the doctors they stationed here a few months ago.

"Mister Crowder," she says with a light voice. "I wasn't expecting you to be up for a little longer."

She walks over to his bed, dress shifting around her jeans like some yellow flower Boyd knows but can't name right then.

She gently takes his wrist between her fingers and holds up her left arm so she can look at her watch while she counts his heartbeat.

"Your cowboy is going to be very disappointed he wasn’t here when you woke up."

Boyd ignores the weird trill of his stomach when she says 'your cowboy' because Boyd doesn't have a cowboy and if he did he wouldn't give a shit in the wind for missing Boyd waking up. She lets his wrist go and it falls to the bed like the dead weight it probably is. She talks funny like she isn't from around here. Like she's from very far away.

She must see something on his face that Boyd didn't know was there because she says, "He just went to get you some food. I'm sure he'll be back soon."

Boyd nods like that makes sense. He sits there as docile as he can while she pulls out a pen light and shines it in his eyes.

"Everything seems fine so far. If you start to feel nauseated or fall asleep when you shouldn't then tell someone."

He nods.

"And make sure you don't do anything too strenuous. I know that's going to be a challenge for your cowboy but you just tell him to behave. Between your ankle and head, you need to be careful."

Now he's just irritated at her and his stomach for continuing on with this charade of him having a cowboy.

"Miss," he says because every woman over thirty loves to be called miss. "I don't have a cowboy."

She smiles at him, nose crinkling sweetly.

“Of course,” She says like it’s a conspiracy. He shakes his head in denial.

“I truly do not have one.”

She must, again, see something in his face because hers goes soft and a little sadder. She rests her fingers lightly on his shoulder as if to gift him with condolences.

“He’ll come around,” she murmurs and lightly squeezes her hand over him. She’s just about to pull back when the door opens. Boyd’s head turns to it slowly and she jerks her hand away from him like she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. If Boyd knew Raylan less well than he does now he still would have been able to see the way his jaw tightens when he catches sight of that.

Raylan has a tray in his hands that he sets down carefully on the side table when he walks over. Boyd is silent.

“Doctor Roberts,” he says with a dip to his head. He doesn’t look at Boyd, just continues to walk until he’s left the room.

Boyd only says “Thank you,” once Raylan’s got his hand on the doorknob. All he gets in reply is a tightening of a jaw and a door that closes quietly. Doctor Roberts stands there and stares after he has left. Boyd leans over the bed enough to pick up the tray. His hands are shaky and the glass on it rattles a little. It’s enough to snap Doctor Roberts out of her fugue and she turns her attention to him. The tray has bean soup, a crust of bread, and a glass of actual milk on it. Boyd has no idea how or where Raylan found milk since they only get the powdered stuff anymore but he isn’t about to question it. The soup is warm-ish and the bread is hard but it’s still the best meal Boyd has had in months.

Doctor Roberts sits at the end of his bed and says she’ll wait until he’s done eating to finish his exam. When he catches her eyeing his milk he holds it out to her and she takes it with a spark in her eyes and greedy hands. She doesn’t drink much of it, just a sip, but when she tastes it she still moans like it’s the best sex she’s ever had. Boyd would put money down that she sounds the same when she comes but he doesn’t feel like finding out if he’s right.

 

She checks him out and says that he should be fine, probably sore for the next week or so, that there shouldn’t be any lasting damage but he should still tell someone if he starts to feel any worse or like he might throw up. She also says he should have someone around him for the next few days just in case. They give him a cane because he throws a fit over the wheelchair, it being too icy outside and inside most places for crutches to be anything less than dangerous.

Raylan is sitting in the waiting room when Boyd goes to check himself out, cane in one hand and bottle of pharmaceuticals in the other. He doesn’t say anything, just goes to stand by the door like he can’t wait to leave. Kelly (Doctor Roberts) scribbles her number on the instructions she’s written out for him and tells him to call if he needs anything, even just to talk. Boyd wonders why it’s only people who aren’t Harlan that treat him like he’s some sensitive wilting flower. It’s probably just because they aren’t Harlan. Boyd can live with that. It’s easier to deal with than the looks his fellows give him—as if he’s a ghost walking around making too much noise to be friendly. Boyd just nods, thanks her, and smiles a little.

She squeezes his hand, eyes flicking over his shoulder to where Boyd knows Raylan is standing. Boyd doesn’t look because he doesn’t have to. He knows Raylan is probably glaring, shifting from side to side like a cagey horse waiting to buck free. Boyd gently extracts his fingers from her grip and leans heavily on the cane as he walks out.

The one blessing in the snow is that it brings a traction that ice does not have. The roads are not safe but they’re better than they would be clear of it. Everything is exceedingly bright and it hurts Boyd’s eyes like the world’s gentlest migraine. He does fine walking on his own until they reach uneven ground then it’s all for shit because Boyd can’t not place weight on his ankle here. He doesn’t say anything, though. Doesn’t ask for help or wince, just grimaces because the scarf covering him from neck to nose allows him the privacy to do so.

“Here,” Raylan says, an exasperated tone in his voice and shoves one arm around Boyd while draping Boyd’s own over his shoulders.

“You have just ensured that we both fall when I inevitably trip, my friend.”

Raylan just huffs like that’s funny and keeps his eyes fixed on his car. Being this close to Raylan is not unusual but feels it anyway. It’s just like when they wash up but somehow less bearable. Maybe because Boyd has to look at something other than Raylan to keep his feet on the ground.

Raylan doesn’t help him into the car as if he knows without Boyd saying that that, more than helping him get to the car, would be what hurts Boyd’s pride the most.

Raylan drives slowly and more carefully than even the snow and ice would demand. Boyd just reclines his seat and watches Raylan concentrate on the road. Neither of them talk and, strangely, Boyd doesn't feel the need to.   
It's true that he wants to know why Raylan is there, why he didn't leave, why he bothered to show up in the first place, but he knows he won't get an answer.   
When they get to The Place, Raylan parks right up front next to Boyd's truck. Someone must have brought it back while he was gone. The silence isn't broken even when they make it inside and Raylan is still there behind him when Boyd heads to his room.   
Boyd crawls into his bed on top of the covers, throwing the cane somewhere towards the cupboards.   
Raylan makes a noise more akin to a hiss than an exasperated sigh. Boyd hears him moving around but doesn't care.   
The space heater turns on with an aggrieved click, Raylan's shoes thunk down heavy next to it, and then the blankets move. Boyd expects Raylan to yank them out from under him but he doesn't. A gentle weight settles over him and then Raylan is walking away.   
Boyd closes his eyes, expecting the sound of a door opening and closing and silence but it doesn't happen. Instead the bed shifts under him and there are hands on his boots.   
Boyd's eyes snap open. The half of the bed not occupied by him looks desolate and empty. Raylan is taking of Boyd's shoes like he cares if Boyd is comfortable.

"I ain't undressing you so 'less you want to sleep in your jackets you're gonna have to take them off yourself," is all Raylan says before throwing Boyd's boots over to where the space heater is. Boyd says nothing, not even when Raylan stretches out next to him.   
"What're you doing, Raylan?" Boyd asks in a tired voice. Raylan just sits there in his shirts, his coat and jackets removed during the time when Boyd couldn't see him. Raylan gives him a hard look.   
"Doctor said you can't be alone for the next few days," is all the reply he gives.   
Boyd nod like that makes sense even though it don't. Raylan sits quietly and stares straight ahead.   
"Don't you have law man duties to attend to?" Boyd asks after the silence becomes less unbearable. Raylan takes his hat off and sets it on the milk crate next to that side of the bed.   
"If there's any trouble it'll find its way to me. It always does," Raylan says with that ironic smile on his face. Boyd takes that as the slightly subtle jab it's meant to be and closes his eyes.   
He dreams of a hand resting on the pillows next to his head, lightly touching his hair, and a coal dusted face that smiles with blindingly white teeth and eyes that hold an eternally raging storm.

He wakes up to a soft voice.   
"No," it says. "Just some ice. Everything fine up there? Yeah, ain't exactly Christmas here either... Will do."   
Boyd stays still. He has his face pressed against something warm with buttons. He feels foggy and comfortable. He shifts to see if it will go away and gets a warm weight on the back of his neck, fingers that squeeze firmly before scratching blunt nails over his skin. That's when he notices that his hand is resting on skin a little under a shirt. He stiffens because he's pretty sure that Raylan would never allow Boyd to do that.   
"Hey, go on back to sleep. It ain't supper time yet," Raylan's voice says and it's soft and soothing in a way that Boyd is unfamiliar with. The fingers scratch along the tendon behind his ear, up and then down, then back up again. Boyd figures he must still be dreaming so he presses closer and slides his hand farther up the belly under it. A strong chest moves in one big breath that raises his head then slowly lets out.   
"Sleep, Boy Chowder," Raylan's voice says, amusement and something Boyd feels reluctant to name in it.   
Boyd sleeps.


	3. Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like when the mines caved in on him except it’s his mind going berserk and shoving words and thoughts out of him that he’s kept carefully held up in the dark spots where he couldn’t see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Debating on writing more than this.

They're trapped in The Place for a week now, snow piling up outside the door and barricading them in like a slow flood of solids. Boyd has stopped looking outside because it reminds him too much of the sands and terror of being overseas. The cold isn't unlike the heat he experienced when he went away to fight a war he didn't care about. Hit burns just the same and leaves him numb. Everyone has been taking shifts trying to dig them out but he's pretty sure everyone has realized it's a futile endeavor.

Boyd walks through the Big Room and tries not to look anyone in the eye for fear that he'll see the haunted, empty souls of soldiers. Boyd slips inside his room quietly, shuts the door with both hands. He doesn't have to turn around to know Raylan is there. After the concussion, Raylan has taken to spending the nights in here instead of wherever it was he used to sleep. Boyd's ankle still twinges sometimes but it's nothing he can't handle on his own now. He'd asked once why Raylan stays. All he'd gotten for a reply was a flat, angry look like Boyd had insulted him.

Raylan is halfway through a bottle of Jack and most of the way to drunk from what Boyd can see.

Nothing is said as Boyd takes off his coats, shoes, and jacket.

"Got ya somethun'," Raylan says as Boyd sits down on the bed.

"And what might that be, my friend?"

Boyd is tired and just wants to sleep but, as ever, feels compelled to humor Raylan.

"Mad Hatter. Know most don't like that K2 synthetic shit but--"

Boyd just smiles at Raylan as he hands over the packet. It's brightly colored and beat up. Their fingers lightly brush as he takes it from him. Under normal circumstances, Boyd isn't one to partake in this substance as over-indulging can make him quite sick and he's known some people to hallucinate when they mix. He's thankful all the same.

"How did you come across this?" Boyd says quietly. Raylan takes a sip of his drink.

"Let's just say it fell into my hands in the line of duty."

Boyd smiles and looks over at Raylan. His eyes dart up to Boyd's like he was caught looking at something he shouldn't. They stare at each other a moment. Raylan sways towards him. Boyd stands.

"That was very thoughtful of you," Boyd says as he walks the short distance to the cupboard he keeps his dugout and batty. "I appreciate it."

He feels like there are eyes on him as he rummages through one of his bags but he doesn't look behind him. Either afraid of confirmation or of being proved wrong.

When he turns around, Raylan is raising the bottle to his lips again, staring straight ahead. Boyd sits back down on the bed and stretches his legs out. He takes his time preparing, using his lap as a flat surface. It's not until he has the small pipe between his lips that he realizes he doesn't have a lighter.

"Hold on," Raylan says, fishing through his pockets slowly. He holds up a Bic with the Kentucky flag on it. Boyd takes it with an amused smile.

"Got it at a gas station a little while out. Never know when it'll come in handy," Raylan explains like he feels the need to.

"Of course," Boyd says, allowing Raylan the excuse.

He lights up, holds it in until he feels dizzy, and lets the smoke out slowly. Boyd waits. It takes a while to kick in but once it does it comes on fast and strong as if to make up for the delay. He takes another hit just for insurance. Raylan licks his lips.

Boyd's belly somersaults like the first time he ever thought of himself, fucking, and someone else in the same sentence. Now is when he realizes he is well and truly fucked. It's been too long and not often enough since the last time he lit up. The world is moving in a fast-forward pace or he is in slow motion. He can feel his face doing something but he has to reach up and touch it to figure out what.

Smiling.

For real, he is smiling right now. Boyd didn't decide to and nothing made him but he is nonetheless. He looks over at Raylan.

He's a splotch on an otherwise perfectly dirty room. Raylan does and doesn't belong here. He takes a big, long, drink of his alcohol and sets the bottle on the floor.

"Your daddy used to drink like that," Boyd's mouth says. He feels like it's the wrong thing to say because Raylan frowns. Boyd loves to make Raylan frown sometimes. He loves to make Raylan feel something about Boyd and since he can't ever get a smile out of him, it's the best he's got. He feels guilty about it, though. He hates to make Raylan sad. He just can't help but want to make him feel. Sometimes Boyd just needs to know Raylan is there with him and not somewhere he belongs. Like Lexington or the old west. Raylan would be perfectly at home in Deadwood or out farther. The Alamo.

Raylan belongs somewhere that Boyd never will.

"He'd get to drinking and sit there with this frown like everything were shit and he was the only one who knew. Everyone knows, Raylan," Boyd says leaning towards Raylan and still smiling. Raylan is glaring at Boyd now. He opens his mouth to speak but Boyd beats him to it. "We can just hide it better. Cause we belong in this mud and shit and blood and snow. This is our penance and our sin."

Boyd stops, sways, looks down. He's taller than he should be. He's kneeling on the bed. When did he get up? When did he move? Was he ever not moving closer to Raylan? Struggling on too short legs to keep up with him? He went away after he did, fought and killed for a country that portrays him as a backwoods hillbilly. He notices the way other people, strangers, would shift their eyes when he talked. As if just cause the words came out of his mouth slow meant that he was slow. Boyd looks up. Raylan is staring at him.

If Boyd were a betting man, which he is, he'd put down money that no one treated Raylan like that once his accent had eroded away. He bets that it just helps. That little twang of something old, harkening to an age when women were ladies and men were gentlemen. It plays in the cowboy's favor.

Boyd wants to yell at these people, blow them up in a fire of history, tell them what the cowboys did, what their job was. He wants them to know the bloody birth of the marshal. He wants them to look at Raylan and see that. He wants them to never look at Raylan and see what Boyd sees. He wants them to keep their romanticism so he can have the boy with the black eye and bruises on his arms and chest. He wants the coal miner who shook like a leaf when the world rumbled and fell on them. He wants the young man he pulled out of hell only to be sent to it again with a rage in his eyes and a steady hand, determined to not let the uncaring world win.

He wants the lawman that looked at him like he was a stranger but worse. Like he was a bug that needed to be purified with Raid. He wants those cold eyes and the rage. He wants it to pound into him until he’s oversensitive and screaming.

"I want to wear your hat. Can I, my friend?"

Raylan stares at him with cagy eyes, like how a wild horse looks down on the man who will break him, and nods slowly. Boyd grins harder, crawls over Raylan, picks up his hat. It's a might the wrong size for Boyd. He can't figure out if it's too big or too small. He goes to sit back on his feet but there's something in the way. Boyd looks down.

And down Raylan's torso. Boyd is sitting in his lap. He doesn't know how he ended up here. He knows, though, doesn't he? This is where he's been running from and to since Raylan Givens sat down in the cart next to him as they waited for it to take them into the belly of Harlan, into the dark and coal and sin that is their home's lifeblood.

"What do you think?" Boyd says, hands somehow resting on Raylan's shoulders like they go there. Raylan smiles that ironic smile that Boyd likes to think is just for him.

"You look ridiculous."

Boyd leans forward some more. He feels so unsteady. He needs to rest his head on something solid. One of Raylan's hands come up, reaching around Boyd's for something. Boyd leans back to follow it until it touches the hat. Raylan is going to take it off him, Boyd knows. It’s wrong of him to have it on in the first place. It doesn't belong on his head. Raylan just moves it, fixes the hat so it sits tilted back on Boyd's head, then lowers his hand. Boyd stares at him, grinning. The smile starts to slide off Raylan’s face.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Boyd says and leans forward until his forehead is against Raylan’s. Boyd likes this, likes that from this close Raylan can’t look away. Raylan frowns harder, his eyes almost going cross-eyed not to meet Boyd’s.

“Boyd,” Raylan says and there’s a warning in his voice. Boyd pays as much head to that warning as he’s done all the rest of Raylan’s warnings, which is none at all.

“I want you to smile, Raylan,” Boyd murmurs. “I want—I want to see you smile.”

Boyd feels Raylan’s forehead move under his. It’s hard to focus on his face even though Boyd is trying as hard as he can so he can’t tell if it’s because Raylan is frowning harder or not. Boyd’s hands are moving up and down over the material under them because it feels nice, warm, and firm. Some part of him knows it’s Raylan’s chest but he doesn’t care to acknowledge that.

“I want you—” Boyd cuts himself off to consider what he wants, his mouth fighting over whether to frown or smile. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was the whole sentence. Everything lit up inside of Boyd and made a sense he’s been trying to keep from himself for a long, long time. He digs his fingers into the shirts over Raylan’s chest and lets out a long breath.

“I want you,” his mouth says and it’s like it doesn’t need his permission to speak. He starts saying things he rarely allows himself to think. “I want you to look me in the eyes. I want you to be able to stand the sight of me. I want to know what your skin tastes like and I want to know how stubble burn feels. I want you to fuck me even though I don’t precisely know what that would entail.”

Raylan is staring at him with his eyes bugged out like he does when he’s trying to process whatever just happened and Boyd can’t stop. It’s like when the mines caved in on him except it’s his mind going berserk and shoving words and thoughts out of him that he’s kept carefully held up in the dark spots where he couldn’t see. Boyd pulls on Raylan’s shirts because he’s not close enough and nothing will stop this torrential outpour.

“I dream about you, Raylan,” his mouth says, forming Raylan’s name slowly and delicately. “I dream about your skin against mine and your mouth on me. They’re so vague, these dreams. When I wake up all I remember clearly is me shaking and you fucking me until I scream your name.” Boyd says the last bit quietly. As if it’s something terrible, as if it’s something unbearable, as if it’s a terribly dirty secret.

Raylan’s hands are gripping Boyd’s hips so tight it’s hard to think past the feel of it but he doesn’t need to think for this. In fact, he needs to do the opposite.

“I dream about that and then I wake up _sticky_ and _wanting._ ”

Raylan hisses out a breath and jerks his head away from Boyd’s. He presses it against Boyd’s neck and breathes. Boyd can feel his chest moving in sharp, big breaths against his hands. Hands. Boyd has hands, he remembers suddenly. He can use them, they move. They’re not useless when it comes to this.

“I think about it all day, no matter how hard I try not to,” Boyd says, his hand creeping down Raylan’s torso. “Try to suss out how it would happen, what you would be like, how it would feel to have you over me, under me. Mostly, though.” Boyd pauses, licks his lips. He’s talking right in to Raylan’s ear from this angle and he watches it slowly turn red as his hand moves down. “Mostly I wonder what face you make when you come.”

Raylan groans, grabs Boyd’s hand before it reaches its goal and this is it. This is where Raylan shoves him off, spits ugly words at him, and leaves. Raylan’s free hand moves in a flurry of motion that Boyd’s eyes can’t follow. Raylan’s hat is knocked off his head but that’s the least of it. There are lips against his that are harsh and soft all at once. It makes Boyd think that maybe Raylan is holding back; maybe this is a controlled outburst, one small fraction of the whole of his want. A hand at the back of his neck squeezes gently and Boyd is lost, the only thing anchoring him to the here and now are those hands and the lips moving against his.

He breaks the kiss because he has to, because he needs to.

“Raylan,” Boyd says and it comes out closer to a whisper, a prayer. Raylan is mouthing at Boyd’s neck like it’s the feast to his starving man and Boyd’s hips are moving without his permission, rocking slowly against Raylan. He says Raylan’s name again, this time a little loud, fingers twisting in Raylan’s hair. He pulls back and glares at Boyd. Heat, all the heat missing in the world is in Raylan’s eyes when they look at Boyd.

“What.”

Raylan doesn’t say it like it’s a question, more like a demand. Boyd can’t breath. Not with that look directed towards him, not with those eyes on him.

“Naked. I need you naked and on top of me,” Boyd rushes to say. He needs to get it all out before this K2 invented hallucination is over with, before he comes to himself sitting on the other side of the bed with miles of blankets between him and Raylan.

The next thing Boyd knows he’s on his back staring up at Lucifer himself as the fallen angel pulls off his shirts in one jerky motion. Boyd moves to kneel before him and touches tentative hands to the skin bared before him. Raylan lies down to yank his pants off and Boyd follows, touching the skin of a forbidden fruit. This is the knowledge that God didn’t want man to know, Boyd thinks reverently.

Raylan is naked and lying there, body still like he’s the supplicant and Boyd the deity. Boyd slides his hand from armpit to hip, just barely skimming skin against skin, eyes fixed on Raylan’s face. It doesn’t change but it’s like something moves underneath it, making it go between blank and wanting like a candle flickers in a breeze. Raylan’s hand gently touches Boyd’s when it starts to move between Raylan’s legs.

“Your turn,” he says and Boyd nods before leaning back. He’s not as efficient at undressing as Raylan is, even with his help. Possibly because of his help. Boyd stands up on the bed and starts to tug his layers of underclothes and pants off, trying to work around where Raylan is pressing his mouth to Boyd’s thigh while his fingers tickle the bend of his knee. Boyd’s legs are shaking by the time he gets his clothes down to his feet.

He collapses slowly onto the bed, trusting Raylan’s hands on his sides to guide him.  There’s a brief, grief filled moment, when Raylan isn’t touching him in which Raylan yanks Boyd’s feet out of the tangle that is his pants before Raylan is on top of him, pressing smooth strong skin against Boyd.

“I want to make a mess out of you,” Raylan says, voice rough in a way Boyd has never heard. He nods because words have abandoned him in his time of need. Raylan drags his mouth down Boyd’s neck slowly, cold chapped lips catching on Boyd’s skin. His hand is between Boyd’s legs and Raylan’s doing something there that makes it hard for Boyd to breath. “Think about what you taste like.”

Boyd doesn’t know if that’s a command or a confession so he takes it as both. He squeezes Raylan’s sides with his knees and digs the fingers of one hand into the blankets and the other into Raylan’s hair. He _hurts_ he’s so hard. He almost, almost, can’t stand it. Then Raylan is touching him, squeezing and stroking. Boyd can’t breath. He can’t breath but that’s OK because he doesn’t need to anymore. He can die like this for all he cares. Raylan rubs his stubble-covered cheek against Boyd’s neck.

He remembers how to breath because he needs to do that so he can grunt or moan or whatever noise it was he made at that. Boyd tugs at Raylan’s hair until the man lifts his head up enough for Boyd to devour his mouth. Because that’s what he does. Devour as he is devoured. They are the snake eating its own tail, destroying as they create. Forever consuming themselves.

There’s something hard and soft in Boyd’s hand. He’s amused at the juxtaposition. Nothing hard should feel soft but it does. He does. Raylan is contradiction so his body must follow suit. Raylan jerks once under Boyd’s hand before he nips at Boyd’s bottom lip.

“Let me,” he says. “Let me.”

So Boyd does. He opens his hand and lets Raylan do as he wishes. He moves away from Boyd. Raylan smiles up at him (that beautiful ironic smile) when Boyd reaches for him before ducking his head down and swallowing him whole. Boyd’s panting, fingers digging into the flesh of Raylan’s shoulders because he can’t reach anything else, while Raylan makes Boyd’s unspoken snake metaphor a little more literal than Boyd had intended it to be.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Boyd blasphemes. Raylan just bobs his head further down in response. He’s doing something else, palm spread against Boyd’s thigh, thumb pressing in rolling motions to the skin behind his balls. Boyd’s toes curl and he knows he must be raking up Raylan’s back but he doesn’t care.

“Jesus, Raylan—”

Raylan looks up at him, like that, mouth spread wide and pink, saliva glistening as it escapes from the left corner of his mouth and Boyd is done. His vision blacks out in spots and he truly has forgotten how to breathe this time.

He collapses against the bed, not even remembering when he sat up and sucks in gallons of cool air. He’s shaking. Literally shaking. Raylan climbs up the bed, lies on his side, and looks down at Boyd. There’s a little bit of something shining at the corner of Raylan’s mouth. Boyd stares at it until Raylan licks it up. Boyd shudders. Raylan smiles.

“Looks like you got what you want,” Raylan says in a light voice, still smiling.

Boyd hums and reaches with weak hands. Raylan grabs them, scoots down the bed, and pulls Boyd onto his chest.

“Got to see me smile,” Raylan murmurs into Boyd’s hair. There’s something hard and soft pressing into Boyd’s belly. It makes him uncomfortable. He shifts and Raylan’s breath catches. Reaching down, Boyd wraps his fingers around it and pulls until Raylan’s body stiffens, face contorting. He stares up at Raylan’s face and watches until his body rolls upwards in smooth motions, hips pushing into Boyd’s hand. His eyes close when he comes, mouth parting. Boyd presses his lips to Raylan’s chest until his belly stops jerking.

A sigh rattles out of Raylan’s chest. He wraps his arms around Boyd. This is everything Boyd never allowed himself to want, he thinks as Raylan presses his lips against the top of Boyd’s head.

This is everything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K2 is one of those synthetic weeds you can smoke. Mad Hatter is a type that's been known to seriously fuck your shit up. Many weed purist consider it to basically be fancy potpourri that you shouldn't put in your body. The debate rages on and sounds a lot like the fight over "real" sugar and corn syrup.  
> A dug-out and battie/batty are, respectively, a small rectangular container that you keep weed and a little pipe that's also stored in it. The dug out usually has a spring loaded in the side you keep the pipe in so that it pops up when you slide it open.  
> Keep in mind that some drug culture is regional, that I am working off of my knowledge, and not all terms can be used universally. I know some call a battie a one hitter, for example.
> 
> Sequel Y/N/Y?

**Author's Note:**

> Green goblin is a sort of liquor made with weed, by the way. It looks a bit like pond scum. I know it is also the name of a cocktail but obviously that's not what Boyd is referring to. I fudged a little with how long it takes to kick in so you'll have to forgive me my trespass. 
> 
> Also: writing a story about what is basically an ice age in the middle of winter may not have been my smartest plan as of yet.  
> This is so a WIP that it's not even funny. Like, I could and may change everything just so you know.


End file.
